Lost for Words

by Alice Kuipers

  “It looks fine,” I lied. She tucked her arm through mine as we walked into school. I could smell cigarette smoke on her uniform.

  “What have you been up to?” she said.

  “Not much.”

  “How’s everything going?”

  “Good.” I pulled at my brain for something to say. Why was it that talking to my best friend suddenly felt like talking to some stranger who comes up to me in the street trying to get me to give money to some charity? What was WRONG with me? Finally I came up with “How are things going with the party?”

  “Great. You can come over early with Megan if you like. Come at five.” She paused. “Only if you want.”

  I felt a flutter of pleasure. Things were going to be all right. “Sure,” I said. “Okay.”

  “Some of Megan’s brother’s friends are really cute. There’s this one guy who I can’t stop thinking about. He’s tall with AMAZING blue eyes….” She trailed off. “So, it’s good to see you doing so much better. I thought last term you might never, you know, recover.”

  “Yeah,” I said. We were in the corridor leading to the classroom. The crush of girls was making me sweat. I imagined that if more and more people crowded into the corridor it could turn into one of those tramplings at concerts you read about. A drip of perspiration started working its way down my shirt. I pulled at my collar with my free hand. “Yeah, I’m doing really well.”

  She squeezed my arm hard. “Good,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Yeah.” This was what I’d wanted her to say, so why couldn’t I just catch my breath and concentrate on the moment?

  “You know you’re my best friend, right?”

  A girl pushed past me, jolting my shoulder. In my mind the crush got worse and girls started screaming like they were being murdered. Real terror licked along my spine with a flame tongue. I stammered, “I’ve just remembered…I’ve left something up in the art room.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, you’ll end up being late.” I activated the muscles in my face to make a smile happen, like a clockwork cuckoo.

  Abi’s eyes narrowed, but I was already heading away from her.

  I had to get out of there. “See you later!” I yelled, and pushed my way through the tangled limbs of the crowded space, fighting my way for air. I got out through a side door.

  In the fresh air I felt calmer, and I wondered what I was going to do with myself. I didn’t need to go to the art room at all. It was too late to go back to find Abigail and apologize for being so insane. I went and stood on the tarmac overlooking the playing field. It’s a raggedy bit of grass streaked with mud where girls have torn it up during hockey and track. My eyelashes moistened in the drizzle. It was just another grey day. That’s all I had to remember.

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 12TH

  I just want to forget. When I said this to stupid “Ms. Brown Please Call Me Lynda”—who is round and soft and who looks at me with eyes like a hurt kitten when I don’t want to talk to her—she replied gently, “Do you really think so? I’m not sure burying it all inside is going to help.”

  She was so wrong, it made me want to scream. Instead I decided not to speak for the whole hour. I got so bored, I felt like my tongue might fall out of my mouth like a slug out of a lettuce. I had to keep my eyes open because if I closed them I could see Emily, which is the last thing I want, but keeping my eyes open meant I could see the sympathy and patience on Lynda’s face.

  I got so sick of it, I leaped up and stormed out, slamming the door. Lynda’s place of work is an ordinary terraced house, brick, two floors. The curtains are yellow, a happy color, hospital cheer. I turned away and marched down the road.

  I heard Lynda yell after me, so I ducked into a corner shop. I wandered up and down the aisles, then went to the counter and looked at the cigarettes. I wanted to buy a packet, although I don’t even smoke. I put my hands in my pockets, looking with my fingers for money, but I didn’t have any. The scrawny man behind the counter noticed me and frowned. Abigail and Megan smoke; Zara and I don’t. I wondered for about two seconds if things with Abigail would go back to normal if I took it up, but that was just me being stupid.

  He said, “Can I help you?”

  I didn’t answer. I just got the hell out of his shop.

  2

  With rings on their fingers

  And knots in their hair

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 13TH

  It’s Abigail’s party tonight. At least Mum’s giving me a ride so I don’t have to get the train.

  I don’t know what to wear. I called Abigail to ask what she thought, but her phone was busy. Megan’s phone was busy, too. I sat on the bed for ages trying not to be annoyed that they were obviously talking to each other. I’m so pathetic.

  In the end I called Megan again, but this time she answered. Of course I didn’t have anything to say because I’d only called to see if she was still speaking to Abigail, and all I could come up with to ask was what she thought I should wear to the party. I heard in her voice that she thought I was being ridiculous, but she said, “I’m wearing a skirt and top I bought last weekend with Abi.”

  I don’t like wearing skirts. I’ll wear my jeans instead.

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 14TH

  It’s really late and I just got back from the party. I’m glad I wore jeans. Megan was wearing jeans and so was everyone else. I’d have looked totally stupid in a skirt.

  I slept badly. I had a horrible dream about being stuck in a well that was filling with water so I couldn’t get out, then the dream changed and I dreamed about the party. When I woke, I couldn’t remember for a while what had really happened and what was nightmare. I’m so sick of bad dreams, I feel like giving up sleeping.

  So, I got to Abigail’s late because I took so long deciding what to wear. Megan and Abi were putting on makeup in Abi’s room. I love her room; I’ve stayed there thousands of times. I love the tangerine walls and the red and yellow floral bedcover from Mexico and the wooden planks balanced on bricks to make shelves alongside the bed. Above the shelves is a huge batik of the sun and the ocean. Her brother got it for her from Indonesia. It’s not the sort of thing Abi usually likes nowadays—too flaky for her; she’s more into things that are fashionable—but I think it makes her whole room feel like sunrise.

  Abi sat cross-legged on the bed, hunched over her sister’s mirror. She put concealer under her eyes and said, “I hate my stupid sister.” Then she looked at me, her mouth open, the words hanging between us. She added really fast, “I mean, she’s so annoying. She screamed at me for taking the mirror. Thank God she’s only back from university for a few more days.”

  I didn’t know what to say so I looked through her wardrobe.

  She said, “Why don’t you borrow my white shirt?”

  I was glad the subject was changed. “Sure,” I said, because the shirt makes me look like I’ve got bigger boobs.

  Then she threw me over a pair of trousers. “They don’t fit me anymore, and you’re definitely thinner than me now.”

  Megan didn’t say anything. It was almost like she wasn’t in the room.

  Abigail said gently, “How’s your mum?”

  I shrugged. “Not good. She spends all her time with her collection.”

  Then I wished I hadn’t spoken because Megan said in her nasal voice, “What collection?”

  “Nothing,” I replied.

  But Abigail cut in with, “Sophie’s mum collects things that other people have lost.” I gave her a look to shut her up, but it was too late. She babbled on. “Like lost gloves and photographs left in library books and bits of paper people drop. Notes and stuff. She has lots of pennies, a massive jarful, right? And some really nice jewelry.”

  Megan twisted her lipstick back into the tube. “Weird,” she said.

  Abi seemed to realize I might be embarrassed because she flushed and glanced over guiltily. She said, even though she knows I don’t smoke, “Do you want a cigarette?” as if
it would undo her saying all that in front of Megan.

  “No, thanks.” I turned on my heel to show her I was still annoyed and slipped to the bathroom. I took a couple of deep breaths. I changed my shirt. The white one made my eyes look greener. I put on some more mascara—only on the top lashes like I read somewhere, so it doesn’t smudge underneath. The doorbell rang, and people started arriving.

  The back room was set up with the sofas pushed to one side so the DJ decks could be on the table by the patio doors. Zara showed up in a bright pink outfit that could look good only on her; the color would make me ridiculously pale. Megan’s brother and some other guys dealt with the music. Soon cigarette smoke hung in the corners of the room like spiderwebs.

  Abi and Megan twittered on. Both of them were drinking from the same bottle of vodka, completely wrapped up in their conversation. I wandered around. The two big sofas in the front room had loads of strangers squeezed between the cushions. I decided I’d rather sit in there than with Abigail and Megan, so I went in. A couple of guys shuffled over to make space for me. The nearest one asked my name and which school I went to, but I didn’t want to talk so I gave him one-word answers. He gave up and talked instead to his friend. And here we get to the good part. Because I met a guy last night. (Me! I still can’t believe it!)

  So, I was sitting there, and he came into the room. He was at least six feet tall. He wore a shirt that said POP IT, and I read those words over and over, trying to work out if they were cool or dirty or what.

  He CAME OVER and said, “I’m Dan.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t speak. I was looking at his face. He had dark skin and blue eyes. I couldn’t help but think that Emily would have noticed how great his eyes were. The color was the blue of those globes people sometimes have in their offices. Mum has one and most of it is ocean, and Dan’s eyes reminded me of the globe on her desk. Except that color is flat and Dan’s eyes had depth. Like his eyes had just been for a dip in the ocean. Blue, blue, blue.

  One of the guys next to me got up and Dan asked if he could sit down.

  “Sure.” I smiled.

  “I noticed you’re not talking to anyone,” he said, his voice deep and friendly.

  “Um, maybe I’m shy?”

  He smiled again like my answer was funny or sweet or something. “Let me see if I can help with that,” he said.

  My tummy tingled. And then we talked and talked. Here’s everything I can remember. He’s seventeen. He goes to St. Philips. He wants to study philosophy. He likes fried chicken because last year he spent a month in America somewhere and he ate lots of fried chicken. He wants to go traveling for longer next time: to South America and to Bali. When he said Bali, I thought about what had happened there and I froze a little, but he carried on speaking, so he can’t have noticed. Um, so, he’s from Iran. Well, he’s not, his dad is, and his mum’s from near me in Islington. And I wanted to ask if his parents were separated or together, and what Iran was like and if he’d been, and if his dad was Muslim, even though it makes no difference if he is because why would it? And I was thinking all these things, and I must have gone quiet because Dan said, “You’re really pretty when you’re thinking.”

  I just about fell off the sofa. It was like everything in the room stopped moving. All I could feel was my heart beating like a stuck needle in the groove of one of Mum’s old records.

  Abigail staggered in and sat on the arm of the sofa and wobbled to get her balance. She leaned over and said, slurring, “Dan, I see you’ve met my best friend, Sophie.”

  I crossed my arms and half turned away from her. I wanted her to leave and stop flicking her hair and smiling at Dan. But he didn’t really look at her. Instead he said, “So that’s your name.” Our eyes connected, and this shiver went ALL THROUGH ME.

  Abi said, “I need to borrow her for a moment; is that okay?” She grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the other room.

  “What’s wrong?” I said. And then, “You’re so drunk,” which makes it sound like I was being mean, but I was just surprised. Abi hates getting drunk because of her mum.

  “I feel really sick, Soph.” She held her hand to her lips and said through her fingers, “Does vodka have loads of calories in it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I said.

  “I don’t want anyone to know.”

  I looked around at the older guys and everyone smoking and dancing. I thought how Abigail would feel being sick with all those people in her house. I took her to the bathroom and held her damp curls back while she threw up. The acid smell in the tiny space was nauseating, but when she was done, I stayed, helping her wipe her face and getting her some mouthwash.

  By the time we got back downstairs, the party was loud with chatter and music. I looked for Dan, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. I was tired and sad, and when I get like that I don’t want to be around anyone. I called a cab and it took ages for it to arrive. The driver overcharged me because he said I’d kept him waiting, which wasn’t true, but I didn’t have the strength to argue.

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 15TH

  Mum and I circled each other like cats today. It’s almost as if she doesn’t realize I’ve been back at school forever already. She kept asking if I have everything I need for Monday. I don’t have anything I need, but I can’t talk to her about that.

  She just came in and sat on the end of my bed. Her eyes were empty of light: flat and sad. I didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything, either, and just as suddenly as she’d come in, she left.

  I got out of bed and followed her. She went into her office, shutting the door with a click. I listened to her crying for a while. I didn’t want to go in there with all the lost things in her collection. My hands started shaking. I returned to my room and put the TV on loud enough to stop the thoughts in my mind going around and around like frenzied dancers.

  I wish that I could fall asleep and make my brain rest. I’ve been lying awake for the last two hours. Mum’s STILL in her room with her collection, and I don’t want to go in there. It gives me the creepiest feeling even going past the door. Why is that collection so important to her? And what does it mean that she collects things that other people have lost? It’s strange how in a home there are these questions that never get asked, things that never get said. I want to tell Mum to stop spending all her time in that room. I want her to come out and talk to me, but I don’t know where we’d start.

  MONDAY, JANUARY 16TH

  I came home after school, and Mum was in the living room wrestling with the Christmas tree, trying to take it down. The tree was covered with brown needles that fell all over the floor as soon as Mum touched it. The little dead needles looked completely flammable, and I could just imagine the whole tree and Mum going up in a violent puff of smoke and flames. She would scream and collapse to the floor, struggling to breathe. I closed my eyes for a moment to clear away the image. I leaned against the doorframe with my hands in my pockets and thought about helping her, but then I remembered how awful Christmas day was. Mum didn’t bother having turkey or anything—she doesn’t cook anymore—and neither of us had bought presents. Mum said she couldn’t imagine anything worse, so no presents. The stupid tree was only there because the Haywoods had brought it over.

  On Christmas day Mum and I sat in the living room and tried to think of things to say, neither of us able to say anything. I swear I could see Emily sitting on the other sofa making jokes and pulling faces, Mum laughing at her jokes. I screwed up my eyes and told my brain to stop.

  Because it never would have been like that. Even before, Mum didn’t laugh very often. She was always busy cleaning and tidying. If she ever sat down, her lips were squashed up tight as if she were trying to contain herself.

  Once, years ago, a couple came for dinner. Mum’s friends. Mum sat with her shoes off, kicked loose on the floor, her feet curled under her on the couch. She was drinking red wine, and her m
outh got all purple. She gestured all about her, hands like birds, and she was laughing. She suddenly seemed like Emily: free and fun and happy. I bet when Mum was young, she was just like Emily. I think that’s why she always loved Emily more than me, because she was like Emily when she was young. But she’s not like that now. Not after years of looking after the two of us on her own, working full-time. Although she hasn’t gone back to work, even though I’ve been going to school since the end of the summer.

  I watched her yanking at the Christmas tree. Unable to bear it, I slipped out of the room and headed upstairs, where I put on really loud music.

  Even over the music, I heard her yelling, “Sophie, can’t you see I need some help down here?” I know it was a terrible thing to do, but I turned up the volume and ignored her.

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 17TH

  School was long and boring. When I got home, Mum didn’t even come out for supper. The only time I saw her tonight, her face was totally haggard. Worn away by time.

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 19TH

  We had this dance teacher come in specially today. He was the most crazy, intense guy on the planet. At only five foot three he was no taller than me. He wore cerise Lycra, and he was completely bald, which DID NOT go with the shiny outfit! He taught us this insane choreography. It started with two cartwheels, then a tombé and sootanue (or something), then a handstand from being on our knees, and finally hand gestures that he said were from sign language. It was all to this strange electronic music with beeps and whistles.

  The only person who could do it was the new girl, Rosa-Leigh. The rest of us were trying hard even to remember what came next, and Rosa-Leigh could do it practically perfectly. He complimented her constantly. I was going to tell her how great she was when we sat for registration after lunch, but she was writing, maybe a poem, so I didn’t.

  I wonder what it’d be like to write a poem. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 24TH

  Emily went to my school before me. She was a star pupil, best of all at Art. I wish I’d never even chosen to do Art because the teacher, Mrs. Haynes, hates me. She sees Emily when she looks at me, I’m sure.